1.01.2011

The Wild Geese, by Wendell Berry

Horseback on Sunday morning,harvest over, we taste persimmonand wild grape, sharp sweetof summer's end. In time's mazeover the fall fields, we name namesthat went west from here, namesthat rest on graves. We opena persimmon seed to find the treethat stands in promise,pale, in the seed's marrow.Geese appear high over us,pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,as in love or sleep, holdsthem to their way, clear,in the ancient faith: what we needis here. And we pray, notfor new earth or heaven, but to bequiet in heart, and in eyeclear. What we need is here.